


My Moral Standing Is Lying Down

by Alcoholic_kangaroo



Series: Small Town Boy, Going Everywhere [5]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Consensual Underage Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 02:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14684769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_kangaroo
Summary: Will is feeling lonely but Billy Hargrove is around.Last part of the series.Warning: Set summer after season 2 so this is very underage smut. Don't like, don't read





	My Moral Standing Is Lying Down

**Author's Note:**

> There's some important character development in this one. In that I'm in it! I mean, you don't see me, but it's summer of 1985 so baby Alcoholic_Kangaroo is out there shitting her pants and screaming somewhere out in the world.

The record shop smells like baking wood. Like the scent of an old tree stump on a hot summer day. Not fresh or sweet like fresh wood, not like freshly chopped wood chips or how shop class has smelled like fall. And God, did Will love that class, because he had been partners with Mike and Mike had been so careful with him, shouldering him out of the way of the saws because he was afraid of him having an episode and hurting himself. It was almost worth being possessed by a tentacle monster just to have Mike doting over him with his goofy goggles, smelling like that eucalyptus shampoo and-

The record shop isn't like that. It doesn't smell like doting eucalyptus and fresh wood chips. No, it's something more oppressive and sticky. As if the sap itself is oozing from the walls. Will walks carefully, in short, measured strides, afraid of his shoes catching on the sap-covered floor and pulling him back with a thwumping sound.

There isn't really any sap on the floor.

It's not one of the nineteenth century store fronts in the middle of town. There is a music store there, too, over near the garage where his mother takes her car in for oil changes, but everything at that store leans more heavily on the synth side of the music spectrum. Besides, this shop is close to Will's home. Closer to the suburbs. He can bike here on his own. Usually, though, he hitches a ride along with Jonathan, and that's one of their things. Just the two of them, browsing music, smiling at each other, their hands brushing as they reach for the same records. Last time they had come together Jonathan had smiled so sweetly at him and reached over to brush the hair from Will's eyes, telling him their mother was getting lazy about her kitchen salon. Usually, Will sees the trips to the record store more about bonding with his brother than just shopping.

Usually, but not today. Because Jonathan is off with Nancy Wheeler and Will is on his own on this sweltering summer afternoon. They went to the swimming home on their own, not bothering to invite Will along. He would have like to gone swimming. It's so hot today and his only way to fight the heat has been shorts, tank tops, and Popsicles. Mike is stuck at home, enduring the yearly visit from his cousin Vincent. Understandably, Will isn't allowed over until Vincent's family has departed for another eleven months. Lucas and Max are having “alone time,” whatever that means. And Dustin disappeared with Steve somewhere. That seems to happen a lot lately, especially since summer vacation kicked in. Will has wondered in the past, not seriously really, if Dustin and Steve might be dating.

Will doesn't mind being alone, not really. He misses Jonathan and Mike but missing somebody is not the same thing as disliking being alone. It's nice, sometimes, to be on your own. It makes him feel independent, biking here all by his lonesome. He has money in his pocket from mowing lawns with Lucas and a stomach full of leftover barbecue chicken from last night. The world is his oyster. Well, more like breaded clam, he can't afford oysters.

The bells above the door jingle when he enters. The music over the radio is loud, not so loud you can't talk over it if need be, but not department store style music. It's a Duran Duran album. Will hums along absently, not even noticing he's doing so.

The cashier, Gil, doesn't recognize him immediately. He did a few too many drugs in the 60s and his senses aren't the sharpest. He's a nice guy, he talks slow and always has a bowl full of Dum Dums on the counter, but he always squints at his customers menacingly, mostly because he's near sighted. Today, he's thrown off by the absence of a doting big brother and Will's shortened summer haircut (still bowl-esque but up above his ears) and squints at him for a long moment. Then he nods at Will and goes back to flipping through a tattered looking copy of Rolling Stone. He's not fooling Will though. He catches the one eye that is trained on the opposite side of the store. It's a look that says he is watching a suspicious looking character. He does not trust whoever the other occupant in the store is.

Will can't see the other person. The rack between them is tall, wood backed, and he can only hear the slow, methodical steps of heavy boots on dusty wood. Will wonders if Gil dusts the wood on purpose, to combat the sap. Will's sneakers are silent as he walks, the only indication of his presence being the aforementioned bells that dangle over the doorway.

The punk section is small but Gil, who is also the owner of the shop, updates it often. Still, Jonathan often has to special order albums at the front desk. Not just ones that run out quickly, but ones Gil just never bothers to order because he's not going to waste money on merchandise nobody is going to buy. Gil has a large binder full of titles and dates and he lets you leaf through them if you're looking for something special. Sometimes he suggests records that Jonathan may like. Will doesn't know where the special order albums are kept but he imagines a giant, sprawling warehouse resembling the one in Indiana Jones in his mind. Texas, maybe. Texas oil. Vinyl is made out of oil, he thinks, it'd made sense for them to press the albums in Texas. But would they melt down there, under the searing Texas sun?

There's a new album on the shelf today. Black Flag. A hand is hidden in what looks like a large oven mitt, clutching a knife. It's mildly off-putting, punk album covers often are, but Will knows that Jonathan is a fan of Black Flag. He'd be happy to come home from swimming, smelling like muddy water and damp grass, and find a new Black Flag for them to listen to together. He might even let Will sit in his lap again. It's been months since he's let him do that. Will misses his big brother's lap. He wishes he could have gone swimming with them. He wouldn't have been a bother. He wouldn't have even complained if he got cold and started shivering, he'd just wrap himself up in one of their old towels and try to find a place in the sun.

But Jonathan told him no kids were allowed.

Like Will's a kid. He's a teenager now, too.

But Will doesn't have it in him to hold a grudge against his brother. He reaches up for the album and carefully removes it from the shelf like Jonathan had taught him, because you need to treat vinyl like they're as fragile as eggs. He turns it over to read the back cover.

Will doesn't notice the boot steps that approach him until the voice sneers close to his ear.

“Better watch out what you're listening to kid, punk rock is for queers. Don't want people talking, do you?”

Will jumps, dropping the thin package in his hands. His arms shoot out to catch it, he doesn't want to break something as valuable as a Black Flag album, but he's too slow. Delayed by a fraction of a second by his reflexes.

There is no thump of cardboard against wood. It doesn't hit the dusty-sap floor. Will's eyes dart down, his reflexes still just a bit too slow, but he only sees black boots and acid washed jeans. They're skin tight. Much tighter than the ones he wears, or Mike, or Jonathan.

“Whatcha looking at, zombie boy? Like what you see?”

Will knows Billy Hargrove. Of course he does. He's Max's stepbrother, or something like that. He isn't sure of their exact relationship, are their parents married? Are the adopted? They live together but they are not blood related. But even if he didn't know Max he would still know Billy because of the things he's done to his friends. Because of his taunting and cruelty to all of them, but especially Lucas. Billy is not a nice person.

“S, sorry,” Will mumbles, “Thank you for catching it.” He reaches for the Black Flag album with shaking fingers but Billy lifts it far out in front of his own face, as if he's farsighted. He reads the album title out loud. Will could probably grab it, if he tried. Maybe. But Billy is pretty tall and if he misses he'd be embarrassed for trying to snatch it out of the air in front of him.

“Black Flag? Seriously, are you that desperate for a dick in your mouth?”

“It's a present,” Will says, lies, flustered. He wants to share it with Jonathan but he has no plans to give it to him. He's been acquiring his own record collection the last few years, his tastes sometimes diverging from Jonathan's. If he likes this album he'll add it to his own collection and it will be Jonathan's turn to be gifted a cassette tape. His voice cracks on the last work, making him feel ridiculously young next to this man.

“It's a faggy present,” Billy says with a roll of his eyes. He has deceptive eyes. They look kind, puppy dog like, but they laugh with something dark beneath them. Billy reaches up and places the record on the highest shelf of the rack, out of Will's reach. That shelf is supposed to be used for display purposes only, for showing off rare finds.

“Leave him alone,” Gil suddenly calls from the back of the store. “I won't have you harassing my customers. If you aren't going to buy anything then get out.”

“Nobody's harassing nobody,” Billy says, lifting his arms up by his head and smiling charmingly at the older man. Like his eyes, his smile is deceptive. “Just giving the kid some music advice.”

Billy strolls away from Will, though Will doubts he really cares about being banned from the store. The one in town is much bigger and the prices are better. Billy disapperrs back around the rack and Will listens for the slow clunk of his boots moving further away. Will sighs and picks out a second copy of the same Black Flag album. There are only two of them on the shelf.

The older teen brushes against him a couple minutes later, on his way out of the store, some metal album lightly swinging in a black plastic bag at his side. There's a sharp stab of pain in Will's backside and he panics, internally fearing he has been stabbed by something, perhaps a small pocket knife, or a needle full of drugs. He's heard of guys that do that. They shoot you up with something addictive and next thing you know you're giving head in a back alleyway for your next hit and it wasn't even your fault to begin with!

His heart is in his throat. The back of his skull tingles. He doesn't come to realize that Billy Hargove pinched him on the ass until the older teen had disappeared with a tolling of the bells. Billy pinched him on the ass!

What the hell? Of all the stories Max and Lucas has told him, they never once mentioned a proclivity toward posterior pinching.

He lingers in the store for another fifteen minutes, stopping to discuss one of Jonathan's preorders with Gil, who then brings out the binder to give him a few recommendations that are separate from those he would suggest to Jonathan. It makes Will happy to know Gil recognizes he's not just a shorter version of his brother. Gil writes them down a few more suggestions onto a slip of paper and tells him to give it to his brother. When Gil stops talking, Will struggles to find something else to discuss, he's delaying his exit. The older man must notice because he tells Will to be careful on the ride home.

Not that it matters. Will doesn't ride his bike back home anyway.

Billy is waiting for him outside the store, near there corner where Will had dropped his bike in the grass a half hour ago. The teen is leaning against the wall of the music store, smoking a cigarette, and flipping through the inserts of the record he had purchased. The hair along the base of his neck is damp with sweat and his forehead is dotted with perspiration.

Fear shoots up Will's spine. He doesn't know much about Billy, not really, but he knows he's bad news. There are rumors about him, much, much worse rumors than the stories he's gotten from his friends. And everybody knows the rumors about Will. The rumors that aren't rumors but fact. When he's not zombie boy he's fairy, queer, fag, pillowbiter.

Jonathan had warned him about situations like this. About young gay boys being abducted. Beaten. Raped. Mutilated. Killed. Back when Vincent had attacked him last summer his brother had felt the need to drill these facts into his head. Jonathan had taken him to the library and brought up old newspaper articles and made him read them all, telling him he needed to be safe.

But Jonathan had also promised to keep him safe. Jonathan had promised to always be with him. And now he's on his own with Billy Hargrove. And Billy is so, so much bigger than him. One of those tightly jeaned muscular thighs is as big as Will's waist. What could he do to fight him off? He could scream, hope Gil hears him, maybe, above the Duran Duran blaring from behind the walls. But he's frozen. How can he say no when Billy commands, doesn't ask but commands, that Will get into his car? How can he say anything at all?

He slips wordlessly into the front passenger seat and waits for Billy to slide his bike into the back.

 

* * *

 

Will expected Billy to drive the two of them out into the forest to kill him. The forest is large and Will is small. It would be easy to get rid of his body in the endless expanse of trees and shrubs and pine needles and dead leaves. Bury him. Throw him into the river and let him be dragged downstream. Burn him. Just leave him for wild animals.

Billy doesn't take him to the forest. He takes Will to the graveyard. Maybe there's already a hole there. He could throw him in, cover him with a thin layer of dirt, and nobody would never know he was being crushed for eternity beneath another person's casket. God, what if he's not dead yet? What if he just knocks him out? Would the weight of the vault crush him immediately or would he just sink into the dirt and slowly suffocate?

But there are no open graves and Billy drags him past the shining, new stones, to where old, white limestone markers are all but unreadable and no flowers have been placed in generations. He drags him to the corner of the cemetery, to where the trees are starting to creep in over the rickety wooden fence. There is a mausoleum awaiting him, the corroded lock already cracked open.

Will finds this prospect more frightening then being strangled and left in the forest. Will he leave him in here after he beats him? Leave him to die a slow, prolonged death through dehydration or internal bleeding? It won't take too long in this oppressive heat, but three days without liquid would still be a living, dying, hell.

“Nobody ever comes over here,” Billy explains, pulling a bag from his too-tight jeans. It ends up being surprisingly cool inside the crypt. It might take four days instead of three. The stone is heavy and the trees shade the building. “All the new stiffs are buried over on the south side. Don't tell your friends I'm sharing my shit with you, I'm not wasting my hard earned cash on a bunch of Freshman brats.”

Will has never smoked pot before. He thinks he should feel grateful, that Billy is drugging him before killing him. Will that help with the pain? He smoked cigarettes, once, a pack Dustin lifted from his mom back when they were eight, but it had made him sick. Will had spent an hour hunched over, his head between his knees, each breath sending spikes of pain up under his ribs and through his lower back. Dustin had told him it might be a kidney infection because that's what happened to his father when he had one and, by the way, passing a kidney stone is about the worse thing you can ever do in your life.

The pot doesn't make him nauseous. It calms him. Makes it easier for him to breathe. But it does nothing to make him forget the fact he's cooped up with an old dead guy and Billy Hargrove. He keeps looking towards the door, wondering if he could make it out in time if he ran for it. The door is heavy. He could open it, but it might take a few seconds to get it to budge, and Billy would have him back in his clutches before then.

Will wishes Billy would just hurry up and do it already.

The mausoleum is starting to feel cold and the dimness of the little stone room is welcoming after a week of unseasonably hot weather. Maybe being stuck in this little room for eternity won't be that bad. He missed the Wheeler's air conditioning. Fuck Vincent for visiting them. For taking away the air conditioning. For taking away Mike. His Mike. God, he misses Mike. More than he misses Jonathan, even. And he'll never see either of them again. He wants one last hug from them both.

Will keeps coughing and Billy smirks at even when he takes the joint back from him. They're sitting on the ground, knees drawn up. Will feels even shorter in this position. His mother always said he was all legs, which must mean he's not much torso. His head only comes up to Billy's shoulder.

The only light comes from a couple of high windows near the back and they're darkened by the leaves of the tree blocking them. Even if he turned to look at Billy he wouldn't be able to read his face.

“What are you going to do with me?” Will finally works up the courage to ask him after another coughing fit. Tears run down his cheeks. His eyes sting from the smoke. “They'll find you if you just leave me here. They'll figure out it was you.”

“Will they?” Billy asks, arching an eyebrow. “Why, you planning on telling your mommy what big, bad Billy Hargrove did to you?”

“I don't want her to know,” Will mumbles. He wipes at his face. He's not sure if he's crying or if his eyes are just watering. “It'll be better if she doesn't know. What are you going to do with my body?”

“Geez kid, you're to the point. Don't you want to leave some of it as a surprise?”

“No,” Will shakes his head. Tears run down his cheeks, the motion propelling them further. “I want to know. What are you going to do with my body? Set it on fire?”

“Fuck,” Billy coughs on the joint as he inhales too sharply. He holds the joint back out to Will. “You have some weird kinks kid, I was just planning on fucking it.”

Will's stomach churns. He's always known Billy is a psychopath, but corpse sex?

“Jesus, you've gone white as a ghost,” Billy frowns. “I'm not going to force you, dude. I'm an asshole but I'm not a rapist. But you owe me for the pot if you're not up for it.”

Billy...isn't planning on killing him? Then why the hell did he drag him out into the middle of nowhere to get him stoned? He goes so lax he feels as if his spine just slid right out onto the floor beneath him.

It must be the drugs. Maybe Billy laced it with something because Will knows he isn't usually this slow on the upkeep. He's still ignorant to Billy's true interest in him until Billy's got him in his lap and his tongue halfway down Will's throat. It's his first kiss, not counting the chaste ones he's shared with girls or family members. Neither Jonathan nor Mike ever kissed him on the mouth. Will sits there, eyes wide with shock, not responding to the movement of the lips on his own. He doesn't react to the tongue massaging his own.

“Kid,” Billy groans, wiping at his lips with disgust. “I meant what I said, I'm not going to rape you. Tell me now and I'll go get your bike out of the car.”

“Are you, are you gay, then?”

“This town and its rednecks,” Billy sounds disgusted. “You can like both, you know.”

“Then why bother with me?”

“You're cute,” Billy shrugs. “And you were there. And you're gay. Nobody else in this podunk county is going to throw you a bone.”

Billy thinks Will is a virgin. How cute. He doesn't need to know about Mike. He definitely doesn't need to know about Jonathan.

The older teen teaches him how to kiss. It's like the kisses Mike would suck into his throat, forceful and almost violent, but more two-sided. It feels more intimate. He can taste Billy, the taste of not just pot but menthol gum, dirt-like tobacco, and something that he suspects may be spaghetti sauce. That sounds disgusting put together but he laps at the older teen's mouth with his tongue. Will likes how it feels and when Billy pulls away from him he pushes forward to try to recapture his lips. Bully chuckles and pushes him away with his hand. His other hand is unbuttoning those acid wash jeans.

“Relax. You'll get more, but let me give you something bigger and better than a tongue.”

Billy is about as long as Jonathan, but much wider. Will's jaw aches as he takes him as deep as he can. He fears it might crack. How could he possibly go home with a broken jaw from sucking cock? What if he was rushed to the doctor and they found traces of semen between his teeth? Or coating the roof of his mouth? What if they tested for pot? His mother would kill him.

But that isn't enough of a deterrent. Will can't help but take him deeper. He craves this feeling. The power that comes with pleasuring another male. The throbbing heat in his mouth. He wants to impress Billy with his cocksucking skills. His throat convulses around the length, making the older boy groan. Fingers dig into Will's scalp where his head and neck meet. He's holding Will down, forcing him down onto his dick, and Will's enjoying it. The feeling of being utterly under someone else's control is intoxicating. He gags several times. A small bit of bile surges up into his mouth, bitter, and he makes himself swallow it along with the cock.

He forces himself to relax his throat and Billy takes over, moving his hips slowly, his shaft sliding between Will's parted lips. His lips that already swollen and sensitive from their kisses.

“Good job,” Billy breathes when he makes it all the way in. Will's nose twitches as pubic hair tickles his lips and nostrils. He feels like he can barely breathe, but it's not a scary feeling. It's exciting. Billy's praise makes him feel warm. He missed being praised. He missed the way Jonathan would look at hims adoringly whenever he managed to take his entire length, or the way Mike amused about how awesome he was after he had gotten him off. Billy is being nice to him. Except, when he suddenly sneezes, Billy gives him a smack on the head. “Don't bite me.” Will couldn't help it. It's not the hair, it's the smell. Something musky but wholly artificial. Cologne, maybe. “If you bite me again you'll have to find another guy to fuck you up the ass.”

Does Billy actually plan on fucking him? The answer ends up being a definite yes. Something about this feels more adult than what he's done with either Mike or Jonathan. Maybe it's the condom. Billy shows him how to use one and makes him roll it down onto his leaking erection. He tells him a cute gay boy needs to get good at readying his man. Says next time he wants him to do it with his mouth. Which makes Will throb between his legs because he didn't expect a next time.

He tells Will to lean over the tomb, bracing himself with his palms flat against the old, crumbling stone. Billy doesn't even tell him to take his shirt off, just pulls his shorts down and leaves them lying between Will's ankles.

“This floor is filthy,” Billy explains as he opens him, his fingers so much thicker than Jonathan's elegant ones. This isn't a man used to holding a camera, maybe a wrench. “Cute little thing like you might pick up something kneeling on it with your bare knees.”

He's never done it like this, only face to face with Jonathan, and it feels better, deeper. He holds Will around the waist, keeping him in place as he slides into him. This is needed because he doesn't prepare him well enough and Will jumps, his body pulling away on its own accord. Mentally, he wants this, to be fucked, used. Physically, he cramps inside. Can your pull your asshole muscle? Is there an asshole muscle?

Will doesn't care. He lowers his head, letting it hang limply between his shoulders, and breathes through the pain. He can see Billy between his own legs, he looks so much larger than himself. His legs are so much thicker. They're braced steadily against the floor like a pair of unmoving tree stumps. When he moves, Will feels himself convulse around the width of him.

“Can't believe you took it all kid,” Billy says, whistling in admiration. “Wish your brother was here to take a picture of my cock in your sweet little ass. Looks like I shoved a baseball bat into a damn Coke bottle.”

Will isn't sure how he'd feel about that. Jonathan would probably punch Billy in the face if he was here. But the idea of him hovering around them, actually clicking away on that camera of his, is enticing. He imagines Jonathan touching his lower back, steadying himself, murmuring how hot he looks taking another man. Maybe he could blow Jonathan while Billy fucked him.

“I felt that,” Billy chuckles. Will hadn't even realized he'd squeezed around the length at the mere mention of his big brother. “You really are a kinky little fuck.”

“More,” Will gets out. “Give me more.”

“You've got all of me in you, kid.”

“Move.”

“Who are you to give me orders?” Billy chuckles again. But he's in a good mood, or just wants to start fucking Will in earnest, because he does start moving. The friction is divine. The stretch around him is better than anything he ever experienced with Jonathan and it doesn't take him long to find that spot inside of him. The one that Jonathan never managed to hit nearly as much as Will wanted him to.

But Billy...Billy is hitting that spot inside him with nearly every thrust. Maybe it's the size, not the position. He's also using real lube, something clear and oily from a small white tube, and it squelches in an erotic way that Jonathan's hand lotion never did. He drives into him hard and deep with every single thrust. He's using enough force that each movement is met with the sound of skin on skin.

“Hey,” Billy grunts out, giving Will a hard slap on the ass. “Stop being a lazy little fuck and do your part.”

His part? Oh. Will pushes back against him, meeting his thrusts. The cock inside him hits a different angle, the friction better. Billy makes an appreciative noise but apparently isn't entirely pleased with the effort because he grabs at Will's hips and directs him, pulls him back at the same time he pushes forward so the penetration is so unbelievably deep Will thinks he's about to taste Billy's cock up through his throat. Will scrambles for a grip on the vault, his nails digging into smooth stone.

Will wonders what the person inhabiting this tomb would think if he knew was going on right above him. He recognizes how sacrilegious this is. Billy grabs his wrists back, hissing that he'll hurt himself, and wretches them behind his back, pressing him flush against the stone. Will realizes how close he is to the corpse. His face scrapes against rough rock, his cheek mere inches from a dead body. It's an old body though, surely it would be nothing more than old, moldering bones by now.

Billy bites him. It's hard and Will knows there will be marks on his shoulder in the morning. But he moans at the pain anyway, and Billy finally takes him in his hand at that point, starts jerking him off. His hand is big and rough and clumsy on Will's erection. He licks at the bite mark and presses his chest against Will's back, covering him, and it makes him feel safe despite the pain of stone digging into his stomach. He can feel Billy's long hair brushing his cheek. He smells musky.

His legs are shaking. Is the whole world shaking or is just him? Is Billy just used to this feeling, from growing up in California? His body keeps sliding down against the stone, towards the edge of the fault. Several times, Billy hikes him up by his hips, keeping him in position as he uses the weight of his own body to support him. But it feels unnatural to stand with a dick in your ass. He keeps resisting the urge to kneel, to take it on his hands and knees like a bitch in heat. He wishes there was a pillow he could bury his face in. Or even better, bite. Suddenly he understands the old insult.

Why couldn't Billy have taken him somewhere with soft blankets and cushions? It's so hard to stand through this. He wants to spread his legs further apart, he feels like that would make it feel even better, and he's so, so close, but that's impossible. Not if he wants to stay off the floor.

It doesn't matter. Will ends up on the ground in the end anyway. He comes first, Billy fucking him right through his orgasm, and Billy comes only a few seconds afterwards. He shoves Will even harder against the side of the stone, his hips flush against Will's ass as he throbs his release deep inside him. As soon as Billy's hands release him he melts to the floor, leaking oily clear liquid from his sphincter.

He didn't even think to feel guilty when he came on the side of the vault.

Billy doesn't do much in the place of pillow talk, but he does hobble onto one foot for a minute so he can remove one of his boots, and then he hands Will one of his socks. It's warm and smells mildly repugnant. He uses it to wipe the substance off his thighs anyway, thanking Billy for his generous gift.

It doesn't feel as wet inside as usual. The condom kept it all safely tucked away from Will's vulnerable insides. Somehow, that's vaguely unfulfilling. He's used to having full access to the semen of his lovers. He feels cheated.

Will watches from the floor as Billy ties up the condom into a deflated, sad looking balloon. He wonders if Billy would think it weird if he asked for it as a souvenir. The man's dick is glowing faintly, like wet rocks under moonlight. The lubricant is much slicker than lotion. Will licks his lips.

Far too harshly, Billy shoves Will away when he goes to him. Still on his knees, he laps at the head of Billy's half-hard cock. He wants to lick it clean. But Billy pushes him back so roughly that Will smacks his head on the corner of the vault.

His vision swims. He grabs for the ground, which has turned sideways, for support. There's something hot on his face.

“Fuck! Will, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to- It was too much is all. You're bleeding.”

Will touches his face. His fingers come back red. He is bleeding.

Billy finds an old oily rag in his car to wipe the blood off Will's face. There's half a bottle of vodka shoved in the glove-box and he sanitizes the rag with it first before dabbing at the cut. Will protests, claiming his mother will smell it on him and think he's been drinking.

“You can't smell vodka, dipshit.”

Billy must be feeling contrite because he lets Will sit in his lap for a long while after that, patiently pressing his lips to the injured side of the boy's forehead. He even agrees to drive them to the theater after to see Back to the Future. The others already saw it, but Vincent had been with them so Will hasn't had anybody to go with. Will has a headache throughout most of the movie, but Billy shares his popcorn with him and rests his hand on Will's knee.

He kisses Will again afterwards, a block from his house, and now he tastes like popcorn. It's not gentle or loving, but possessive. He presses Will against the car seat and holds him still with a large hand against his chest.

“Don't think we're like, boyfriends, or some gay shit like that,” Billy tells him.

“Okay,” Will agrees.

“I'll pick you up tomorrow at ten. Remember to bring your swim trunks.”

“Okay,” Will agrees again.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to make sure I finished this before I went on vacation. The original ending was going to be a Mike/Will/Eleven threeway but I didn't really want to write anything sexual about Eleven.
> 
> Should I post my Tumblr address? I'd probably just get a lot of hate posts.
> 
> Anyway, I'll try to write something with a real plot next time. Or maybe just more smut. I have requests for Joyce/Will, Nancy/Mike, and some others out there. What does everyone else want? Would anybody actually read Bob/Will if I wrote it? I don't know. I had my last final today so yay! God I'm exhausted.


End file.
